


Singing Sweetly Through the Night

by TheMourningMadam



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Divorce, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21898177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMourningMadam/pseuds/TheMourningMadam
Summary: “No one should be alone at Christmas, least of all you. You’re a good father, no matter what happened between us.”
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 22
Kudos: 261
Collections: Strictly Dramione Christmas Fest 2019





	Singing Sweetly Through the Night

**Singing Sweetly Through the Night**

**\--Christmas Eve--**

Draco always hated firewhisky. It was disgustingly sweet and burned like the fires of Hades as it slid down his throat. He had learned to tip it back in the Slytherin common room and he was ashamed to admit, had never looked back. He didn’t even wince anymore at the licks of pain in his esophagus. For everything wrong with the infernal libation, it had one saving grace: enough of it would make him forget it all.

Forget how he had loved and lost the most brilliant, vivacious, and gracious witch he had ever met. Forget how she had taken their son to live with her in a small flat in muggle London and only gave him the opportunity for interaction on the weekends. Forget how big of a fucking idiot he had been; to push Hermione away slowly and systematically until they found themselves signing divorce papers.

Draco found himself alone on Christmas Eve, sitting by the fire in his study, staring dazedly at the flames as they danced before him. It was Hermione’s year to spend Christmas with Scorpius and they were staying with her parents in Australia for the holidays. His own mother had tried to reach out to him, to invite him home for Christmas, but Draco declined. He claimed that a particularly difficult assignment would keep him out of the country. Really, he just wanted to drink in fucking peace. 

He dropped his head back against the leather chair and closed his eyes, allowing the haze of alcoholism to overtake him. Scenes from the various Christmases he had spent with Hermione played in his mind and his eyes squeezed tight as he fought against the barrage. She had always gone over the top—with decorations, with gifts, with bows and mistletoe and festivities. After so many years choking on Darkness in his own life, the vibrancy she exuded had worked to thaw his icy heart. 

Fuck, he missed those days. When life was carefree and she kissed him with hot chocolate on her tongue and tinsel in her hair. When they stayed up all night and opened gifts just before daybreak because Draco was too excited to wait any longer to shower her in presents. When they spent hours in the freezing snow, only to head inside to spend hours finding ways to heat themselves up.

Draco swallowed hard and pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was beginning to form, one even firewhiskey couldn’t cure. A soft pop broke through the silence. “Master Draco?” came the squeak of his elderly house elf, Mims. 

He looked over at her, and she was wringing her tiny nightgown between her hands, a puffy shower cap covering her head and ears. “What is it, Mims?”

“Mistress Hermione is coming,” she told him, pointing toward the window. 

Draco rose quickly, knocking the tumbler of liquor to the floor in his haste to reach the window. Sure enough, striding down the snowy path toward the front door of the Manor was his ex-wife, little Scorpius skipping along and trying to catch snowflakes in his open mouth. “Well, don’t just stand here, go ahead and let her in!”

Mims disapparated and he made his way to the mirror over the mantle. He looked like death warmed over—his hair was a mess, his eyes bleary and bloodshot, his shirt untucked and askew. He retrieved a vial of Pepper Up from his desk drawer, the pepper burning his already raw throat as he gulped it down while running his wand over his hair to smooth it. He tucked his shirt into his trousers just as he heard Scorpius’ loud peel of excitement. 

“You’ve got to knock, Scorp!” Hermione called, to no avail. 

Scorpius came barreling into the room and ran headlong into Draco, his tiny four-year-old body slamming into him. He scooped the boy into his arms and lifted him to his chest. “Hey, bud. Happy Christmas!”

“Daddy! You’ll never believe what Uncle Harry bought me!” he squealed as Draco tickled his sides.

His eyes went to Hermione and she shook her head slightly.  _ He hadn’t bought the broom. Thank Merlin.  _ “What is it?”

Scorpius’ grin grew wide as he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a tiny, walnut-sized gold ball. “A ‘nitch! Now all I need is a broom, but mummy said I can’t have one ‘cause they’re dangerous.”

His lips fell into a small frown and he turned the snitch over in his fingers. Draco fought the grin that threatened to spread at the Firebolt, Jr. that sat in his closet. He ran a hand over the child’s back as he looked to Hermione. She was moving toward where he had broken the glass, a deep scowl on her face. “Start the festivities early tonight, Draco?” she asked harshly, waving her wand to clean the spill.

“I thought you would be in Australia,” he replied quietly, not wanting to argue in front of Scorpius, who had seen his fair share of their fights in his short life. 

“Your mother said you were lying about being on assignment,” she told him, finally turning to face him with her hands on her hips. “Some assignment this is.”

Draco ignored her snide tone and looked to his son’s face. “You want your presents now?” he asked and Scorpius’ eyes grew wide.

“Father Christmas came already?” he asked suspiciously and Draco raised an eyebrow. 

“Just missed him, I’m afraid,” he replied, turning toward the door and averting his eyes away from Hermione’s scrutinizing stare. “He said you’d been a good boy for your mummy, is this true?”

“Always, daddy! I promise! But how did he know where to put the presents? There’s no tree!” he argued, kicking his little feet against Draco’s legs as he walked. 

“Too true,” Hermione agreed with a resigned sigh. “He must have given daddy the presents for safe keeping, knowing we were coming. Let’s go get a tree decorated, hmm? And  _ then  _ we can open presents.”

She put her hand on Draco’s back as she followed him and Scorpius from the room and the licks of fire that spread from her touch burned hotter than the firewhisky sliding down his throat. “Thank you—” he began thickly, and she put her hand up.

“No one should be alone on Christmas,” she told him quietly. “Least of all you. You’re a good father, no matter what happened between us.”

He wanted to argue that their tiffs hadn’t been a big deal, to apologize, to hold her in his arms once more. He looked at the floor as he descended the stairs, Scorpius singing sweetly of angels in his ear. When they entered the sitting room, he called for Mims. She appeared, looking miffed at the intrusion on her early night. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to know if we could work on getting a tree in here? Nothing crazy, just one of the evergreens from the property line.”

The small elf looked at him, surprised before she smiled. “Of course, Master Draco. Anything for you!”

“Thank you, Mims. And tomorrow, I don’t want you in the kitchen. I’ll cook,” he told her, and her smile fell a little. 

He leaned toward her conspiratorially, shooting a glance in Hermione’s direction. “You’ll still be around,  _ just in case,  _ right?”

The elf winked one big eye and disapparated, likely retrieving the other elf to assist her in selecting a tree and maneuvering it into the home. He knew Hermione disapproved of him keeping elves, even if they were paid help, but she said nothing as she watched Draco run his fingers through the mass of blond curls on Scorpius’ head. “Why don’t you show me how good you are at catching the snitch,” he murmured into his son’s ear, setting him on his feet.

Scorpius smiled and pulled the snitch out and released it from his palm once more. His laughter warmed Draco’s heart as he took a seat on the couch. Hermione busied herself in his kitchen, searching deep within its confines to find the makings of hot cocoa. “Did you have fun playing with Albus and James today?” Draco asked, watching the snitch flutter about at waist height, zooming just out of Scorpius’ reach.

The frown returned to the child’s face and he peeked into the kitchen where his mother was occupied warming mugs of chocolate. “Albus is the same age as me and Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny bought him a Nimbus 100. Mummy isn’t being fair, daddy!”

“Well,” Draco eyed Hermione’s back conspiratorially, “we’ll see if you can use your puppy dog eyes to charm mummy into agreeing. She can’t resist that.”

“I heard that!” Hermione announced, carrying three mugs of hot cocoa into the room where Draco sat, Scorpius climbing onto his knee to enjoy his drink. 

Mims entered, closely followed by Boris, her mate. They were levitating a massive tree between them, the boxes of decor appearing with a snap of Mims’ fingers. Once the tree was upright and sturdy in place, Mims placed her hands on her hips and rounded on Draco. “Would Master Draco like for Mims and Boris to decorate as well?” 

Draco waved her away dismissively. “That won’t be necessary. You’ve done quite enough this evening. I’ll see you in the kitchens tomorrow,” he whispered the last part with another half-smile that made the elf’s eyes twinkle. 

“I wanna do it!” Scorpius declared, jerking at the first box he came into contact with. 

Tearing the box to shreds, glass baubles poured out around him, saved from shattering with a bit of handy work on Hermione’s part. “Slow down, Scorp. There’s no rush.”

He tore open another box, ignoring his mother’s request as she let out an exasperated sigh and Draco smirked. Though Hermione thought it barbaric, Draco had kept one tradition from childhood, one that Scorpius loved: the fairy lights were to be true fairies, encapsulated in glass jars.  _ “Calm down. They are incredibly tiny and the jars have been expanded on the inside to accommodate small scale villages in each. I assure you, they are well fed and nurtured, kept safe from the larger breeds of fairies that wish to eat them.”  _ That reassurance had been met with a pursing of Hermione’s lips and a  _ humph _ , but she never protested again. 

The box opened with a wave of Draco’s wand and the glass jars rose out, already greeting them with warmth and cozy light. Scorpius squealed in excitement, clapping his hands as he rushed to where they were all landing by the base of the tree. “Remember to thank them each as you place them,” Hermione told him, sitting on the couch beside Draco.

She purposely left enough space to where he would have absolutely no reason to accidentally touch her, though that’s all he wanted to do. Just to feel her, be assured that this was real and that they were getting along amicably on Christmas Eve, for their son’s sake. 

Hermione felt Draco’s stare on her cheek as she smiled at Scorpius, turning her head to raise an eyebrow at him. “How have you been? I heard you caught the vampire in Lithuania.”

“He’s currently at a rehabilitation center for the undead,” Draco agreed, averting his gaze and running a hand through his hair. “Took two months of tracking.”

“You always were the best in your field,” she commented, and he could hear the accusations in her tone.

“But?” he challenged, feeling suddenly defensive and slipping easily into their old, toxic argument.

“But what?”

He crossed his arms and worked his jaw before answering. “But I rose to the top at the expense of my family. Just say it. I prioritized work before you both.”

Hermione turned where she sat, her face already set to take on his advancements with counter-arguments of her own. “Well, you missed every important moment in his life for the first three years. He sees you now after the divorce more than he ever had when we were together. So, yes, I’d say you prioritized work over your family.”

There was a long pause. “You’re right,” Draco murmured quietly, the anger beginning to fade to defeat as he looked into the fiery mahogany eyes he longed to get lost in.

“And another—” Hermione began before backing her head away in bewilderment. “I’m sorry? What did you say?” 

“I said,” Draco glanced to where Scorpius was laughing at an ornament that dumped fake snow in his hair, “you’re right. I did put my work first. But, Hermione, you have to realize that I thought I was doing what was best for our family. I thought if I became Head of the department, I could give Scorpius a life he would enjoy. A father he could be proud of.”

After the War, the Ministry had seized all Malfoy assets as restitution, leaving the family in financial ruin. Hermione knew it was a sore spot for Draco, being average, but he had worked hard to rise to the top of his profession. He made out decently for himself and had a home that any witch or wizard would be jealous of. Hermione had never seen him as proud as he was the day he had carried Scorpius into that home, pink-skinned and fresh from St. Mungo’s. 

Draco watched as her resolve weakened and her shoulders slumped. “In all of our arguments, all of the fights and the hate-filled nights, why didn’t you ever tell me you felt that way?”

“Because.” Fuck, Draco hadn’t thought this far ahead and his vulnerability was beginning to overtake him. For the first time, he allowed his pride to be pushed aside— something he should have done long before the quill touched the divorce decree. “Because I didn’t want to admit that I’m still ashamed of myself. That I still feel the need to prove myself every day, on every case. If I fail, the first thing that will hit the  _ Prophet _ will be  _ ‘Ex- Death Eater Allows Elusive Werewolf to Slip Between the Cracks on Purpose.’ _ If I can’t prove my worth, I will forever have that stain on my reputation. Scorpius will live under my dark shadow. I can’t bear the thought of that.”

Hermione stared at him, gnawing at her bottom lip as tears filled her eyes. “You daft imbecile,” she whispered under her breath. “If you had just told me all of this, we could have saved ourselves so many fights and so much hurt.”

“I never wanted to push you away, Hermione. I never wanted weekend visitation with my child,” he admitted, lifting a hand and gaining enough courage to brush her hair behind her ear. “I wanted us to be a family. I just lost sight of what was important.”

“Scorpius loves you, no matter what the papers say. No matter what anyone else thinks. He knows you’re a good man.”

Draco gulped down a harsh swallow. “And you?”

Hermione leaned forward and brushed her lips over his cheek. “I’ve loved you since I was nineteen. That’s never going to change, Draco.”

“Come home, Hermione.”

The desperation in his voice was raw and unbridled, bubbling up his throat and burning his eyes. She placed a hand over his where he cupped her cheek. “Draco—”

“Just say you’ll give me a second chance.”

Hermione turned to where Scorpius was surveying his work—only the bottom three feet of the tree where he could reach had any type of decor on it. Her tongue slipped out to wet her lips and she swiped at a tear on her cheek.

Draco knew he had caused her enough heartache to last a lifetime. He was selfish in asking for forgiveness, undeserving of the family he’d taken for granted. But he had always been selfish, hadn’t he? Why should this moment be any different?

He stared at his ex-wife, eyes boring into her soul and he silently implored her to take him back. They’d been separated for six long months and he needed to feel her warmth in his life again. The desolation and loneliness was far too much for him to carry even one more night. Scorpius’ loud giggles fueled his need, his desire to have them here, with him, once more. 

He could see the moment Hermione’s resolve began to falter, pity and her own brand of longing cleaving through years of bitterness. Tears soaked her cheeks, shining by light of the captive fairies and the fire. Her shoulders slumped forward and she placed her forehead against his shoulder. “For him,” she mumbled into the fabric of his jumper, clutching fistfuls in her fingers as her body shook, relief prominent in her cries. “And for us.”

o-o-o

  
  



End file.
